State of Shock (AU)
by junkerey
Summary: Alternate Universe. The vest exploded during the showdown between Moriarty and Holmes at the pool.
1. Chapter 1

"State of Shock" (AU)

Sherlock Holmes returned to consciousness in slow, measured stages to find John Watson slumped in a chair and texting by the side of his hospital bed.

If Sherlock had simply been asleep, then he would have sat up quickly, alert and ready for the day… as was his usual way. The snap-to attentiveness that he usually exhibited upon awakening would no doubt have caused the other man to jump in surprise. John had no clue about that tendency; several of Sherlock's more private quirks, such as his sleeping habits, had thus far remained private. The two men, although good friends sharing a flat, did _not_ share that kind of intimate relationship.

However, in this instance, Sherlock forced himself to come back to the world in careful observational steps. He eased open his eyelids and took in the basics, such as his supine position in the strange bed, the sensation of his beard stubble against the crisp white pillowcase, the particular intensity of his body odor, the unmistakable scent of hospital, the shape of the room's windows, the glow of a London sunset behind the curtains-

_ St. Matthew's_, Sherlock thought with quiet certainty, as he pieced together the architectural layout based on the scant evidence at hand. He also factored in his last known location in to that conclusion-the public pool into where he and Watson had encountered Moriarty, and where Moriarty had prepare to have the two of them shot and killed.

Where Holmes shot the explosive vest which lay on the tile floor between the three of them, disrupting Moriarty's plan with a fiery catastrophe that should have consumed them all.

He figured that some quirky miscommunication between wires and electronics and explosives had saved him. He owed his life to that precious second and a half, that meager gap of time that occupied the moment after he fired the gun that he held in his hand and when the bullet connected with the explosives. He also realized that he owed his life to the quick actions of John Watson. He replayed the events in his mind-the recoil of the gun against his palm, the sudden leftward surge of Moriarty as the man lunged towards the swimming pool, and John's incredibly strong grip around his torso as the ex-soldier shoved both of them into the water, just as the concussion of the blast swept over the area.

"Two days, then?" Sherlock mumbled.

John, engrossed in his text messaging (_no doubt with his intended girlfriend, _Sherlock thought with the touch of a smile), didn't even look up.

"Quite right," John responded.

"Coma?" he inquired.

"No," came the calm reply. "Just unconscious."

The thin snatches of a headache began to probe around his eyes and forehead, but Sherlock ignored the feeling and turned his head farther to one side to better study John's still figure. His sharp gaze took in his friend's awkward position in the chair, the pained expression on his face and the unnatural stillness with which he held himself.

With some effort, Sherlock summoned up the courage to speak again. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He wanted to say more, but his keen ears picked up the sound of familiar footsteps in the hospital passageway. A few moments later, Mycroft Holmes entered, his umbrella in hand and dressed nattily in a gray suit, one of the few unchanged and unchanging factor in Sherlock's life.

The two brothers locked eyes for almost a full minute before they simultaneously looked away. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again, then puffed out a breath of air.

"Shall I give you a lift back to Baker Street, John?" Mycroft asked, although the cheerful tone did not touch his detached countenance. "The guards say that you've been here all day, and you should be resting. My car is downstairs, as it would certainly do no good to stick you into a cab, with all that jostling. It would be quite uncomfortable, I imagine."

John nodded as he looked up and closed his phone, then stood up with some effort and a sharp grunt of pain.

"I'd appreciate that very much. Thank you, Mycroft."

"And thank _you._" Mycroft forced a brief smile as he returned the compliment. "For looking after this wayward brother of mine." He gestured toward the door. "I'll be there in a moment."

"Right." John gave Sherlock a nod and a concerned look, touched him briefly on his exposed right arm, then moved slowly out of the room without another look back.

Sherlock waited until John's footsteps dissipated before he spoke. "How badly is he hurt?"

"Took a considerable amount of shrapnel to the back from flying tiles and concrete and such. Sixty stitches." Mycroft walked to the end of the bed and hung his umbrella over the footboard. "Given the nature of the debris, it could have severed his spine, so I'd say that he got very lucky. As did you."

"What of Moriarty?"

He shook his head. "There's no sign of him. We did recover a few bodies from the building-all of them were men with extensive criminal records who were armed to the teeth, and highly sought-after in several countries besides our own. So that's a bit of a feather in your cap. Lestrade was both impressed and resentful."

"As is his usual state, where I'm concerned." Sherlock reached up to probe at the bandages on his head, then let his hand fall back onto the bed. He glanced up at Mycroft and swallowed. "Is it any worse?"

Mycroft said nothing.

Sherlock's upper lip curled. "I'm asking you a question, Mycroft."

His brother remained silent.

"I'm asking you. Are there any more signs of brain damage?" he demanded in a sharper tone.

"There should be, given what you went through," came the somewhat sullen reply. "You got off incredibly light this time, I'd say."

The fear retreated from Sherlock's eyes and he let his pained head sink back into the pillow.

"I've had three specialists analyze your current scans against the old ones," Mycroft continued in a detached tone. "They can detect no further physical damage." He paused. "Sometimes I want to blame it for how you are, you know. But then again, you've always been this way."

The edges of Sherlock's lips turned upward. "I've always been an 'irritating bastard,' you mean?" he inquired.

"Among other things. But your various dysfunctions could be attributed to that accident-"

"Or perhaps it's simply my lovely personality," Sherlock interrupted abruptly. His hands curled over the blanket and sheet that covered him, and he gripped them tightly as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Mycroft stepped over and picked up the call button beside the bed and pressed it. A nurse came promptly at his calling.

"This patient needs medication now. He's awake and beginning to feel pain. Please tell the physician in charge. Thank you."

The firm, dismissive tone of his voice kept the nurse from saying anything, and she snapped her mouth shut, nodded and backed out of the room, then went away. Mycroft set the button back down, stepped back over to retrieve his umbrella, then hooked it over one arm.

"Foresight, Sherlock," he said gently. "You've always been a bit lacking in that. Living too much in the moment, ignoring the connections all around you… Time and again, you've run across the work of Moriarty, only you failed to recognize it for far too long."

"We can't all be spiders like you," Sherlock replied in a strained voice, "connected to all the elements of the world around us, sensitive to every tendril of existence that ripples down our web."

Mycroft sighed. "Most people, no. It's beyond them. That's simply not an aspect of consciousness that's within their grasp. But I suspect that with your great mind that you could have been. Once."

"Let's not dwell on the past," he said with a sigh of his own. "Least of all, not now." He blinked. "Watch out for John. Make sure he's all right."

Mycroft managed a brief yet genuine smile. "Of course. As if he were my own brother."

The elder Holmes almost made it out the door before the sharp, sarcastic remark came out.

"Better than that, if you don't mind."

The long, silent drive through the congested streets of London and back to Baker Street held no tension in it, merely the comfortable silence of two men buried in their own thoughts. John had ceased the texting that had so occupied him back at St. Matthew's Hospital, and Mycroft had deliberately switched his own cell phone off upon entering the vehicle.

Although he did not physically assist John in the painful journey from the car up the stairs to the flat, Mycroft accompanied him and matched the other man's slow, careful steps, offering silent companionship as a means of support. As John made it to the sofa and sank down onto the worn cushions, he gave Mycroft a look of quiet appreciation. Mycroft, for his part, went into the kitchen and retrieved a glass of water for John.

"Take your pills, Doctor Watson," he chided him in a low voice as he held out the glass. "Bravery is all well and good in front of others, but there's no need for private suffering."

"Right," John replied in a strained voice.

He reached for the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a prescription bottle, then shook one of the pills into his palm and swallowed it, chasing it down with a quick swig of water. He paused, took another couple of sips, then set the glass down on the floor-a closer and more convenient reach for him than the end table.

John's eyebrows went up in surprise as Mycroft planted his feet apart on the floor. "There's something you want to say?"

"Oh, there are several things I want to say. First of all, thank you for saving my brother's life. I know he's probably already thanked you, but it was quite the dramatic gesture. That was quick thinking, on your part, diving for the pool."

John gave a slight movement to his head-one which, if not for the injuries to his back, would have been accompanied by a shrug. "There was nowhere else to go, really. The water acted as a cushion against the explosion, versus the concrete walls and metal lockers that would've fallen in on us had we remained where we were. I didn't expect us to be washed into the floor below, of course, but with the way that the building crumbled, it probably saved our lives."

"A bit of an air pocket, I'm told?"

"Yes, barely large enough for the two of us. It's a wonder we escaped intact."

Mycroft nodded. "I would also like to apologize on behalf of Sherlock, for putting you in such grave danger in the first place." He looked down and tapped his umbrella against the floor, then lifted his head again. "I'm afraid that Sherlock has always been quite headstrong, with little concern for his own well-being and even less concern for others. The mystery comes first for him, but the consequences? Not so much."

John smirked. "Yes, I have noticed that. And I understand that being associated with him has its costs. He's described himself as a highly-functioning sociopath. I don't suspect much good can come out of a situation such as this, but I am nonetheless fascinated by him. And willing to accept the risks." He paused. "Anything else?"

Mycroft hesitated. "Yes," he replied at last.

John blinked. "Well?"

"Well, as a physician, I believe that you should also be informed of Sherlock from a medical perspective. There are elements of my brother's personality that are not entirely due to idiopathic personality traits. I'm afraid there's a more serious aspect to take into consideration. You see, some time ago, he experienced an accident which resulted in severe head trauma." He hummed as he watched John's gaze skitter to the side and the wheels in his mind begin to turn. "I can see you're making some connections now, John."

John gave a brief nod of his head. "There have been… I've seen minor things in his… ways. Traits that would correspond to a brain injury."

"The details of the accident are unimportant, of course," he said with a wave of his hand. "But the lasting effects cannot be discounted."

"How bad was it?"

"Oh, quite severe. He had to re-learn how to walk. How to eat. How to write. How to function in regular society without experiencing some sort of inappropriate outburst."

"A lesson still not yet learned," John muttered. He gave Mycroft a quick glance. "Sorry."

Mycroft smiled. "Don't be. In fact, I don't think he ever learned it before then. He's always been a bit… odd. Then again, so have I. Only my particular oddities had a direction to them, and were channeled into government service, and thus have become highly treasured and protected. Sherlock's talents have pretty much marked him as an outcast. He doesn't 'fit.' He never has."

"Consulting detective," John said to himself.

"Exactly. He's made his own way in the world, pursued his own interests, and even created a title for himself. He's had to forge his own niche in order to be accepted. If you consider the backhanded respect that he receives from the police department as any form of acceptance."

John reached for the water again, took another sip, then set it down again and leaned back into the couch with a low groan. He let out a sharp sound as he struggled to make himself comfortable, then sighed as the pain retreated.

"Damn it," he hissed.

Mycroft nodded at him. "Get some rest, John. Enjoy the evening. Knowing Sherlock's determination, I'm sure he'll be out of the hospital by tomorrow regardless of what the doctors might say. Then I suspect it will be a rough recovery on your part as you'll no doubt be pressed back into service as his… companion." He gave him a sly wink.

John flushed. "I'm _not _his-"

Mycroft grinned and held up a hand. "Only joking, John. But if I know anything about my brother, it's that one minor incident such as this won't slow him down."

"Ha. 'Minor incident.' Is that what this was?"

"Oh, yes. You've only just gotten to know him. Give it a while. Then you'll see what you've _really_ gotten yourself into."

With a casual swing of his umbrella, Mycroft stepped to the door and headed down the stairs.

"Good night, John," he called behind him.

"Good night, Mycroft," John replied.


	2. Chapter 2

"John!"

John Watson's head jerked up at the sound of Sherlock's voice, which brought about a low, deep grown of pain as the sudden gesture re-awakened the agony of his back. He realized that he'd drifted off, yet again, from the heavy medication that he'd been given by the hospital earlier in the day, and silently cursed himself for doing so in front of Sherlock. He'd not moved from his position on the sofa, even when Sherlock had burst into the room with all the energy of old, nor had his friend requested him to do so.

"Sorry," John apologized. John kept his head steady, his eyes half-closed, as he tried to regulate his breathing and get his pain level back under control.

Sherlock's face swam into view only a foot away, and the steely gray eyes focused on him.

"You need to go to bed," he said in a stern voice.

John tried to give a shake of his head, but the first movement to the left made him freeze, and he slowly moved his head back in line. "I'm fine," he said in a strained voice.

The detective paused. "Do you know how long you've been unconscious?"

John opened his mouth, then closed it and glanced around. Nothing seemed much different. Sherlock had pushed for an early discharge from the hospital-earlier than even Mycroft had predicted-and brought himself back to Baker Street the very evening after he first woke up. He took advantage of Sherlock's absence to get some sleep but, of course, the enthusiastic return to his digs had resulted in lengthy and somewhat unwanted conversation.

"I've been asleep," John corrected him. "Not unconscious."

"No." Sherlock gave a quick shake of his head, and looked down as he removed his thin fingers from the inside of John's forearm. "You coughed, don't you remember? Four deep coughs. Then you passed out. You're not ready to be up yet, John."

"The same is to be said for you," he replied in a cross tone. "You've had a serious head injury, in case you've forgotten-"

"I know my situation," Sherlock interrupted. "But I don't think you fully realize yours."

With that, he brought one hand up and wiped swiftly at John's forehead, then held up his wet, shiny hand in front of John's eyes.

"You've got a fever. You're fighting infection, and you should be in bed. You've been _unconscious_," he pressed, "for nearly an hour now."

John blinked. "Well, to be honest, I'm a little worried about getting up. That's why I haven't." He paused. "I do have to pee like the proverbial racehorse, though. Can't put that off any longer."

With considerable assistance from Sherlock, John managed to sit up. He got to his feet, but held up one hand.

"One minute," he panted. "Just… things are getting a bit dark."

"Sit down. You're going to pass out."

"No, I'm not. I'm not going to-"

He passed out. He came to in a seated position, with Sherlock next to him. Sherlock had one elbow on the back of the sofa, his hand folded against his temple and a peculiar smile on his face.

"Welcome back."

John grunted. "You just love to be proved right, don't you?"

The smile widened, and the two men gave it another try. This time, John made it up without as much difficulty, and Sherlock slowly guided him to the toilet. He helped him through the door, then gave him another peculiar smile.

"Perhaps you should sit down for this process."

John pursed his lips together for a moment, then gave him a slight push. "I resent the implication to my masculinity," he replied with a deadpan look. "Now, please, close the door and let me get on with my business."

"Just try to keep your business within the confines of the porcelain," he advised. "I doubt Mrs. Hudson's sympathy towards your condition extends to mopping up after your poor aim."

Sherlock turned and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him, and John put one unsteady hand out and balanced himself with the sink. He closed his eyes, took in a few breaths, then opened them again and fumbled with the zipper of his trousers.

The self-satisfied smirk on Sherlock's face hadn't faded by the time John emerged, slowly and with a frown, into the hallway. The tall man leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, as he shuffled in his direction.

"I'm going to need some help," John said in a strained voice.

"Of course."

He shrugged off Sherlock's hand. "I don't mean walking," he clarified. "I mean, in terms of my bandages. They need changing. Is that all right?"

The smile faded and Sherlock gazed at him with wonder. "Do you mean, is it all right if I assist the man who saved my life? Only if you allow me that privilege."

They stared at one another for several moments, then John managed a slight nod, and they proceeded to his bedroom. It took a while for John, with Sherlock's help, to remove his jacket, shirt and undershirt, all of which he'd slept in. The button-down shirt and the undershirt bore the yellowish stains of the iodine used on the wounds. John called a halt to the process at that point, both hands half-raised in a quiet surrender.

"Pills," he panted. "Please."

Sherlock obediently returned to the sitting room and retrieved the pill bottle by the sofa, and came back with a fresh glass of water. He opened the lid and shook out two white pills from the brown plastic bottle, then capped it and set it beside the bed. John gulped down the medication, chased it with a swallow of water, then took several sips before he passed it back. Sherlock took it out of his hand and set it on the nightstand.

"Hold on," John said. "Let's just wait a bit. About ten minutes. That should be good enough for it to kick in."

Sherlock blinked. "All right."

Both men sat in silence until finally John's breathing grew easier. Noticing the change in his friend's state, Sherlock went back to the bathroom and rummaged around, returning with John's supply of bandages in a square black nylon bag. He sat next to John on the bed and put one hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock's eyebrows went up. "Ready?"

"No," came the terse reply. Nevertheless, he turned and put his back to Sherlock.

It took considerable effort for Sherlock not to say anything. The stony silence of John Watson meant that the man knew what horrific wounds he had on his back-he made no jokes or casual statements regarding them, and Sherlock followed suit. Suggestions for conversation popped into his mind, ranging from John's time in Afghanistan to a humorous remark about an Alsatian, but he used what slight filter that he had between his brain and his mouth to burst those thought-bubbles before they could escape.

How the explosion had not severed John's spine, destroyed any major organs or caused massive bleeding had been a matter of speed, timing, angle and blatant good luck. Sherlock had hit the pool first, and with John's body over his, he knew himself to be fortunate not to have sustained more than one blow to the head (albeit with a heavy, sizable piece of concrete). John's own head had been tucked under Sherlock's arm as the smaller man tackled him, and thus he'd escaped a similar fate, but clearly the shrapnel that had cut into the area around his spine equaled the seriousness of Sherlock's own injury.

In addition to the obvious injuries, John had any number of small scrapes and bruises. With as much care as he could, Sherlock resolutely removed the large patches of gauze and tape against John's skin, and built up a small pile of the stained, sweaty materials in the middle of the bed. He disinfected the wounds, added the spent cotton balls to the collection, and applied fresh bandages, using as much care as he could to cover the stitches again in an orderly, professional manner. One paper package after another joined the pile as he pulled out the sterile gauze and taped it to John's pale back.

Finished with the task at hand, Sherlock stood up and crossed the room to where Mrs. Hudson had supplied a small trash can. He picked it up, gathered the refuse on the bed into the can, then returned it to its position in the corner. As he did so, John stood up and went to the dresser, removing a pair of pajamas.

"Jacket, please," he said, as he pointed to the discarded leather jacket against the wall. "I've got some antibiotics to take as well."

"Of course." Sherlock fetched the pills from John's pocket and handed him two, along with the water glass.

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome."

"Now, if you don't mind, I would like to get some sleep." He handed Sherlock the water glass again. "I would suggest that you do the same. After all, you're also fresh out of hospital, with another head wound to recover from."

Sherlock stared at him. "You've been talking to Mycroft."

John frowned. "No, he's been talking to me."

Sherlock hummed and looked away. "I'm sorry to burden you with extraneous information," he muttered.

"It's not as if I couldn't tell." John pointed at himself. "Doctor, remember? I'm trained to diagnose."

John tossed the pajamas onto the bed and carefully slipped the shirt on, buttoning it up with slow yet steady fingers, then paused with one hand on the waistband of his trousers.

"I've got it from here, thanks," he said with a solid look in Sherlock's direction.

"Ah. Right. Well, I'll just go and put this back."

Sherlock moved to pick up the nylon bag, but John made a noise and held up one hand.

"I'm afraid I'm still going to need that," he explained quickly. "I've got, ah… one more wound to treat."

"Oh, I can do it."

"No. No, I don't think you can, thanks. Right, then." He cleared his throat. "I've got this one."

Sherlock's eyebrows came down, only to rise up a moment later as he surmised where the remaining bandage on John's body might be located-and why it had been the process of sitting down which had caused him so much pain.

"All right. Good night, then."

"Good night, Sherlock. Get some sleep yourself. And let me know if you have any issues related to the head trauma. Double vision, vertigo, that sort of thing."

He gave a sharp nod. "Right. You're sure you're going to be able to-"

"I've _got_ it," John interrupted. "Okay? Now, good night."

Taking the hint, Sherlock walked out and closed the door, then made his way back to the bathroom. He sealed himself into the room and turned on the hot water in the sink, washing his hands thoroughly, then left the water running noisily into the sink.

Then, with a grace that belied the situation at hand, he took two casual steps to the left, bent over and promptly vomited into the toilet.

_Countless crime scenes and cadavers_, he thought to himself as another wave of nausea swept over him, _and it takes _that _to make me throw up. Ah, the high price that must be paid in the face of emotions!_


End file.
